i'm ashamed of my inspiration. i'm disgusted by my own feelings which only makes them pile up. i can only write confessionally because every thought, every longing, every love is a sin.

i feel so intensely, so intimately. i fall in so deep that i can feel every fibre, smell every sky, i can live another life and record it. but then something catches my eye. i'm overtaken by another thought, another sensation, another idea. and i want to taste it, i want to grab it and bite into it, gum it, get high off it, purge it, feel it to it's entirety. i refuse a sample of emotion, i have to lie in bed with it every night and find out everything i can while it fucks me into oblivion and leaves me with a busted rib.

i'm winded by everything and it pours out of me in long streams of success. i can do it, i can make art, i can be this, i'm capable of more than dreaming.

and then i'm so sad. i'm so miserable that it tears my guts out. so i put my guts on a clean page.

then i'm in love. i'm so infatuated. it makes me bury my face in my hands and laugh and i put the blood in my cheeks on a new page.

then i'm scared. i'm so terrified it steals my lungs and so i put them on another page.

and then i'm happy. finally, i'm happy. and i go to press a kiss to a fresh page and look back. all the others are still there. unfinished and unsustained by joy.